Pav lay in the snow at her knees. Blood threaded through his hair, crimson against his skin, running down into his collar. Scalp wounds bled like this. She knew that. It didn’t help.
He blinked, his eyes blank for a fraction of a second, then sharp. Focused. The soldier slamming back into place behind his eyes.
He pushed onto an elbow. Pain hit, flitting across his face but vanishing just as fast.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
She bit down on a retort. “You’re bleeding from your head.”
“Scalp wounds always look worse than they really are.” He wiped blood from his eye.
She pressed her teeth together. “You don’t say.”
His gaze cut to hers—clearer now. Already moving past injury to function.
“I’ll decide what it is.” She pushed up to her feet, hands on her knees. “Can you move?”
“Sure.” He got up slowly, unsteady for half a second before he locked it down, his body snapping into alignment as if nothing had happened. Tendons stood proud in his neck.
Liar.
She stepped in under his good arm before he could argue, taking some of his weight across her shoulders. He resisted for half a beat, then let her.
“We’re moving,” she said, already turning them deeper into the trees.
Downhill. It was easier on compromised balance, faster if they had to run. She picked the line instinctively—a dense canopy with no clear aerial view.
His weight dragged at her side, but he fought it, his breathing measured as if he could bully his body into compliance.
She forced herself not to look up.Keep moving.
“There.” She jerked her head toward a cluster of dense trees, branches thick and snow-laden, a boulder anchoring one side. Far from perfect, but enough cover for her to work and get him packed up as quickly as possible.
She got him there and turned him, pressing him back against the rock. “Sit.”
“Harper—”
“Now.”
He dropped, back hitting the stone. His head tipped back, eyes closing for a second too long.
She pulled him forward and stripped the pack from his shoulders. She dropped to her knees in front of him and opened the med kit.
She held her hands out.Shaking. She scrubbed her hands over her face, blew out a breath.
In. Out.
She was a doctor.
This was what she did.
Except this wasn’t a patient.
This was Pav.
She tilted his head toward the thin light filtering from above.
The gash above his ear was messy, the edges ragged where the metal had caught him. It needed stitches. Imaging to check for fractures. A clean room. Better light.
